


Treading Water

by zzephine



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 70th Hunger Games, District 4, Eventual Finnick/Annie, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-19 22:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14882753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzephine/pseuds/zzephine
Summary: The 70th Hunger Games starring Annie Cresta, her descent into madness, relationship with Finnick, and eventual recovery.Inspired by the books. I haven't seen the Mockingjay movies, so this fic won't necessarily match up with Annie's characterization on film.Please enjoy :)





	1. Chapter 1

#  1 

Everyone in the village swears it was a muttation. The Capitol was supposed to remove all of the mutts from our waters after the war was over, and they did for the most part. Except for The Shark, that is. The Capitol and skeptics in the district maintain that there’s nothing there. But the old fishermen with tangled white beards say that  _ he’s _ still out there, left behind to scare us. Left behind as another reminder of how powerless we truly are against the Capitol. Even as one of the wealthier districts in Panem, District 4 still has to participate in the Hunger Games, and still has a murderous beast lurking in its waters. 

Years ago, we would send out search parties who were armed with harpoons to take down the mutt. But each party would come back empty handed, so now we’ve all but given up. A lot of people have settled into thinking that The Shark really is just a myth being passed down in old sea shanties. Yet, if a foreigner or citizen of the Capitol was to inquire about our shark infested ocean, they would swear up and down that he really does exist. I think that, deep down, everyone knows he’s there.

Now he’s all anyone will talk about. Him and Allie.

I let these thoughts swirl around in my head from the smooth, wooden floor of my dinghy. The gentle ocean rocks me back and forth and the sun is already bright and high in the sky. It threatens to blind me, and, of course, there’s not a single cloud protect me from its power. Instead, the sky is endlessly blue and it meets the sea like an old friend at the horizon. Lovely weather for Reaping Day.

I sit up, wincing as my sunburned skin complains. Unlike most citizens of District 4, I burn easily. Most people here are well adapted to the sun, each kissed by its rays and tan. I’m as pale as the underbelly of a cuttlefish. Fortunately my dad has concocted a special salve for my loser skin.

Dad.

Another wave of grief crashes over me.

He’s taken Allie’s death the hardest.

I dip my fingers into the water, maybe hoping that The Shark will come and get me too. Come and get all of us. My eyelids are heavy and the rocking of my boat so soothing that I somehow drift off to sleep. I haven’t really slept in a while. It’s torture hearing your parents mourn the loss of your little brother through the night. He wasn’t even old enough to be reaped.

A ringing bell stirs me. It’s off in the distance. Sounds like the bell in the lighthouse. I resurface from my dreams, rubbing the sand from my eyes and the soreness from my cheek. I had fallen asleep with my cheek against the lip of my boat. The bell. It means it’s time for the reaping. The reaping I should be at.

I quickly abandon the dinghy and start swimming to shore. I can swim much faster than I can row. Luckily, I had not drifted out too far from the beach while I slept. In no time, my bare feet are hitting the hot pavement of the village square. The Peacekeepers who are responsible for keeping track of attendance give me a knowing look as I sign in. I was late for last year’s reaping too, not because I was saddled with grief, but because I have a tendency to daydream.

The older kids are positioned near the back of the square and I slip underneath the netting that holds the seventeen year old girls together.

District 4 is so large that the Reaping is set up in each of our four village squares. But there are only two enormous glass globes that hold every boy and girl’s name in the district. There is only one Capitol escort and only two victor mentors. I see them all on the platform that sits before the twelve year olds in front of me.

The twelve-year-olds seem to be the only ones nervous for the Reaping. The rest of us know that it doesn’t really matter whose name is fished out of the glass bowl since there is no shortage of volunteers in District 4.

The Capitol anthem begins to play and the screen in front of us me cuts to a message from President Snow. The crowd in the square begins to settle, and people sit on the beach blankets that they brought to protect their bare legs from the hot pavement. The Reapings in District 4 are known to take ages because of the complex protocols involved in selecting a volunteer. We might as well get comfortable now.

I realize that I’m still standing when a pair of warm hands eases me down into a squat.

“Are you okay Annie?” It’s Waverly, my neighbor and best friend.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I reply breezily, “Happy Hunger Games.”

My sentiments are echoed by the woman who has replaced President Snow on the screen.

“Happy Hunger Games!” She repeats in her Capitol way. Some people in the crowd cheer, and the woman looks rather pleased. She hasn’t been the district escort for very long, in fact it’s only her second year. The old escort died in some kind of improbable water slide accident. I guess it’s a blessing we don’t have water slides here.

Her name is Thora Sugarcane and she looks delighted to be here. She claims to ‘love love love’ District 4, and even decorates her elaborate blue locks with little boats and sea creatures. I can’t help but concentrate on a steely shark nestled in a tubular curl in her wavy hair. In effect, she is The Shark. But I choose not to hold it against her. She’s naïve and green and actually very nice. I try to stop being so cynical. What ever happened to naïve and green Annie?

“Let us select the girl tribute first!” She chirps, plunging her hand into the globe filled to the brim with tiny blue slips of paper. The slips undulate as she rustles around. She’s trying to buy time before she has to ask for volunteers. Career kids jumped on her last year as soon as she got the word ‘volunteers’ out, and she nearly broke down in tears. My eyes wander over to the mentors, first concentrating on Mags and then Finnick.

I’ve never met our victors, or anyone who was ever involved in the Games.The age gap between our mentors is particularly striking, Mags at eighty and Finnick at just nineteen. Other than that, I can’t say I’m very knowledgeable about District 4’s most honorable citizens.

Well actually, I head that Mags suffered a stroke a few years back and her health has been deteriorating ever since. But she’s awfully old. I think she’s the oldest living victor, and the last victor to have lived in a time before the Games. She leans on a cane and tries to stand still. They’ll probably drag a chair in for her once the volunteering begins.

I feel sad looking at her, so I shift my gaze to Finnick Odair. While Mags wins the oldest victor award, he wins the award for most attractive. He really looks like the rest of us, though, except for me. Tan skin, eyes the color of the sea. But somehow he’s more beautiful than the rest of us. Right now he just looks bored.

My thoughts are interrupted by the trill of a name.

“Annie Cresta,” Thora announces, holding the little blue slip up triumphantly.

My heart begins to race and Waverly gives me a gentle nudge. I stand, clearly visible in the assembly of sitting children. I’m forced to say goodbye to the worn towel I had planned to spend the afternoon on as I watched the chaos of the volunteer selection play out. Volunteers. Someone will volunteer for me. This gives me courage as I make weak strides towards the stage.

My image dominates the screen. I look crazy. My hair is matted, skin is red and irritated, and eyes are sleepless. Not to mention the fact I’m still dripping from my swim. Thora looks frightened by my appearance, but comes over to congratulate me anyways. Then she asks for volunteers.

I feel as if I’m in a thick fog. I can almost feel the mist from a blurry gray morning by the sea enveloping me. My eyes lock on the shark I had spotted earlier in Thora’s hair and I think of Allie. Sweet innocent Allie. It was a muttation they say. It was the Capitol they say. 

I glance away from the shiny clip and over the energized crowd. Everyone wants to be a tribute. Then I see a solemn old fisherman with a tangled white beard. He nods at me. I nod back. I say no.

The crowd gapes at me. “But she hasn’t trained for this,” they think.  

“No volunteers.” I repeat, not yet released from my daze.

“Well then, congratulations Annie Cresta. You are our female tribute for the 70 th Hunger Games!” Thora beams, taking my sandy white hand and raising it in the air. 

I can’t even begin to explain my actions. Regret and fear wash over me and I feel like I’m holding my breath. I struggle to resurface. I scan the crowd for that wise fisherman to help me get my bearings. Where did he go? 

A few kindred spirits in the crowd clap for me, but their applause is weak. As a whole, the congregation is displeased. A sardine is standing in a spot normally reserved for devil rays, eels, and piranhas. I avert my eyes from their glaring faces. 

My parents lean on each other for support as their friends gather around them in the walk space surrounding the square. I can tell they’re doing all they can to keep from falling apart. My father begins to cry, his shoulders heaving, and they excuse themselves from the Reaping.

I feel faint, and steadily lower myself to the floor to avoid falling off the stage altogether. The wood beneath me is already coated in a layer of sand. I clutch my knees with my hands, feeling the inescapable need to escape. I want to run away and hide in my dinghy for the rest of the afternoon.

There goes my chance for sponsors. What will the Capitol people think of a girl who refuses volunteers but is so weak she cannot stand? I glance over at my new mentors. Mags looks despondent, Finnick raises his eyebrows at me but still appears to be disinterested.

Meanwhile the Reaping is still taking place around me. Thora has retrieved a blue strip of paper from the depths of the boys’ globe.

“Dylan Calder!” The woman with a shark in her hair warbles.

The previously aggravated crowd quiets as the little boy named Dylan Calder mounts the stage. He has red hair and freckles just like Allie. He’s so tiny, yet he looks so brave up there on screen. Up here standing beside me. His presence settle my stomach a little, so I regain my footing and stand next to him. 

“Volunteers?” Thora asks, and there’s an uproar of excitement.

Five boys ultimately volunteer and they are ushered onto stage, each of them fit, tall, and strong. One by one, they tell Thora their names and ages. Then, the attendance taking Peacekeepers join us. One of them holds a hefty, leather-bound book in his white gloves and confirms the identity of each of the boys.

I sneak another peek at the mentors. Sure enough Mags has been given a chair. She resting now, but her expression hasn’t really changed. Finnick seems to be working out something in his head and looks relatively excited. This is what he was waiting for, a real contender who might actually make it out of the arena alive.

The five volunteers’ names are written on new shreds of paper and then the shreds are deposited into a globe that looks like an old fish bowl. Now the crowd is really quiet. Thora dramatically closes her eyes and feels around inside the bowl. She grasps a paper and the populace takes in a collective breath. They exhale as she releases it and continues her search. Finally, her delicate fingers leave the bowl and she reads the name aloud.

“Pacific Lum! Congratulations you are our male tribute for the 70 th Hunger Games!” Thora exclaims as she tugs the boy with dark hair and tan skin to center stage. She raises his triumphant hand in the air and a victorious expression lights up his features.

Pacific Lum shakes my hand. He could probably break it if he wanted. He isn’t broad shouldered like the other volunteers, but I can tell he’s powerful. Instead of being bulky, he is lean and wiry, kind of like Finnick. But that’s where the comparisons stop. Like me, he is rather average looking. Our designers are probably disappointed.

We’re lead into the Justice Building and I’m shut up in a tiny room with wicker furniture and pure white upholstery. The wind blows airy white curtains inward and I inhale deeply. Will this breath of sea air be my last?

My parents are admitted into the room first and I can tell they’ve been crying. First their son is stolen from the world and now their daughter has willing stumbled towards death’s door. They should be angry with me but they aren’t.

We exchange loving words and they smooth some skin salve over my shoulders and face. My dad tentatively peels away my angry sun-burned cells, leaving behind soothed pink skin. My mother brings the edge of her sleeve to her mouth and then wipes my face clean. Then, with a final embrace, they’re casted out of the room by a Peacekeeper. 

A new group of visitors is admitted. This time it’s some of my friends, all teary and telling me that they’ll miss me. No one thinks I’ll make it back home alive.

My last visitor is Waverly. Her expression surprises me. Her normally peaceful face is livid.

“You can’t keep running away Annie!” She shouts at me. “You know that right? You won’t be able to run and hide from this.

“What?” I ask quietly, playing innocent. I think know what she means, and I don’t dare to look her in the eye. Instead, I gaze steadily down at the glossy wooden floor. A few grains of sand blemish its gleaming surface. 

“Ever since he died you’ve been hiding in your boat. But he’s all that anyone will talk about, so you’re running as far away from this place as you can,” she explains, but I can tell she’s losing her resolve.

Tears are leaking from both of our eyes and we manage to hug before she’s torn away.

Soon after, I’m prodded onto a train by some Peacekeepers. Now I’m face to face with my new friends and family. Thora, Pacific, Mags, and Finnick Odair.


	2. Chapter 2

#  2

I nervously clutch the edge of my seat as the train revs up. I’ve never been on a train before, let alone one that goes 250 miles per hour.

Capitol servants file out of the kitchen and place delicious looking things on the table that the four of us are gathered around. Pacific and I sit on one side, Finnick and Mags on the other. I look down at the food, fancy and foreign. A pearly white cloth covers the tabletop and there are at least three different types of forks and spoons on each side of my plate. Every dainty teacup gets its own dainty saucer.

I have no idea where to start. Of course my family uses plates and flatware at home, but nothing of this caliber. Pacific is likewise clueless and I think we’re both relieved when Thora floats out of the kitchen to offer us some assistance. Well, at least I am. Pacific has already selected his innermost silverware and is chowing down.  

Thora hides her distaste for his poor table manners as she pours tea for the table.

“One lump or two?” She asks me sweetly as she procures a sugar bowl from one of the servants.

“Just one, please,” I answer. I take a sip of the dark, warm liquid after Miss. Sugarcane plops one cube into its bitter depths. Ugh it is so bitter. I must make a face because she drops another cubes into my cup once I set it down.

I wonder if, with a name like Sugarcane, Thora fancies herself the keeper of the sugar. She certainly seems attached to it, clutching it close to her body as she asks how many lumps Pacific would like.

“None for me,” he says. She moves on, depositing two cubes into Mags’ mug, and a whole spoonful onto Finnick’s saucer. 

Finally she sits down at the head of the table. It isn’t customary for escorts to serve the district people, but I guess she just wanted to keep tabs on the sugar or something.

“Let us join hands and thank the Capitol,” she says, grasping Pacific’s hand even though he’s still holding his dinner knife. I reluctantly take his other hand and then Finnick reaches over the table to hold mine. Thora instructs us to close our eyes, but I don’t and Finnick doesn’t either. 

We stare at each other as Thora blathers on about how wonderful the Capitol is and how grateful we are for its power. Once she’s done with her lengthy encomium to President Snow, my mentor glances away and nonchalantly pops a sugar cube in his mouth.

“Is it too early to talk strategy?” He asks, crunching away.

“It’s never too early to talk strategy,” Pacific answers, leaning forward a bit.

I almost forgot that Finnick belongs to Pacific. My mentor is Mags, who has just reopened her eyes. I don’t think she was actually thanking the Capitol as much as she was just taking a nap.  

“Alright. So I haven’t been at this for too long,” he begins, “I had to replace old Keel last year, so this is only my second Games as a mentor.”

Mags nods sadly. Keel was at death’s door during last year’s Games and was excused from his duties as a mentor. He passed away early this year after a long and very public battle with a morphling addiction. Only Allie’s untimely passing could get the people to stop talking about him.

“So Mags has agreed to show me the ropes, we’ll be mentoring you two together.” 

I can’t help but wonder if this arrangement is really for Finnick’s sake or for Mags’s. Her speech has become somewhat garbled after her stroke and she needs rest. I don’t understand why the Capitol won’t just leave her alone. I think she’s done enough for the Games.

Pacific and I nod our assent, but then Thora chimes in and dismisses us from the table. Pacific decides to hang around, but I don’t need to be told twice. I have a few seconds to take in the extravagance of my cabin before my vision is obscured by a deluge of tears. I collapse on the bed and make no attempt to stifle my cries.

I miss my family. I hate the Capitol for taking me away from them. I hate myself for letting them.

This will surely be looked upon as an elaborate suicide attempt by my district. It is probably better than just an attempt. I will succeed in getting away from this place. 

I continue to cry until no more tears will come. I cry for my parents, I cry for myself, I cry for Waverly, and then I cry for Allie. Sweet, innocent Allie. His blood is on my hands.

It was three months ago when I took him out on the water. As shop owners’ kids we never really had a reason to set sail, other than for recreation. My family manufactures and sells nets and my parents all but kept Allie wrapped up in one. They were always so protective of him.

But he was itching to feel the bob of the waves beneath his core and the sea spray against his skin. The big boys in our neighborhood wouldn’t let him tag along on their raft adventures, so I told him he could come out with me in my dinghy.

“Your dinghy? No offence Annie, but I think the guys will make even more fun of me if I go out on the water on that thing,” he had said.

“But a dinghy is much cooler than a raft,” I had assured him, “look it even has a name.”

And it did. When I was eleven I had painted “S.S Anne” on the side in bright blue paint.

“Yeah, a girl’s name,” he responded incredulously.

“That’s because all the best ships are named after women, Allie. For example, take the Maria, and the Waterlily, and the Auntie Coral…” I explained playfully, mussing up his red hair as I spoke.

He laughed, squinting his eyes and exposing his toothless smile. He had just lost his two front teeth a few days before.

“Okay then, thanks Annie.” He said, taking my hand.

If only he had protested further.

I wake up from my nightmare with a start and struggle against the net that traps me, but I’m just tangled up in my bedding. The fluffy down that I’ve kicked out of the comforter settles on my clammy brow. 

Despite my agitation, my room is dark and the train is silent. 

I cautiously leave my cabin and creep down the hallway that leads back to the dining room. I need some water.

The moon shines through the windows of dining room, but it’s still largely left in shadows. The place where I had dined earlier and held hands with my team feels cold, sterile, and eerie in the night’s silence. I had expected to hear the rattling of the train rushing along its tracks, but instead my ears are bombarded with white noise. I crave the sound of the crashing waves which is inescapable in District 4. A restless sea that helps all of us all to sleep better.

I’m startled when the room is suddenly illuminated; the source of its warm yellow light comes from a table lamp adjacent to the dinner table. Finnick looks at me from his seat and I feel as if I’m intruding. He looks weary and somewhat annoyed, so I’m surprised when he gestures for me to join him at the table. I go apprehensively and sit in front of him. It’s quiet save for the rattle of the train. The rattle of the train. Had I imagined the silence earlier?

Elbows on the table, Finnick buries his face in his hands and then starts laughing. He’s not hysterical or anything, but laughing nonetheless. I fail to see what’s so funny.

Uncovering his face and resting his cheek on his hand he recites:

_ Annie, Annie so mild and fair, _

_ With bright green eyes and dark brown hair. _

“I’ve never heard that odd poetry before,” I say, confused.

“That’s cause I just made it up,” he says matter-of-factly.

“When?” I ask, still confused.

“While I was thanking the Capitol for being so wonderful to us. 

“Oh, well thanks, I guess,” I say, suddenly self-conscious.

I hadn’t really bothered to brush my hair all day, and, from the swim to my restless nap, my dark brown hair probably looked like a dark brown seagull’s nest. Probably not even a very good one at that. 

But then my thoughts are once again dominated by a memory of Allie. During the spring, he and I would evaluate the work of the seagulls that nested near the shop. He always said I was too nice when grading the rookie nests. What I wouldn’t give to return to my former life as a bird nest inspector.

Finnick shrugs, “Poetry is my talent after all. And maybe I’ve realized you’re not as crazy as you look.”

He’s referencing the talent that all victors have to showcase after winning the Games. As for the second part, well, I guess he doesn’t think I’m as nuts as I’ve acted today. 

“You better go shower up, we’re almost there.” He adds.

I look out the window and see a red sky behind the rising sun. This makes me recall an ancient scrap of poetry tossed around at the docks back home:

_ Red sky at night sailor’s delight, _

_ Red in the morning sailor take warning.  _

I turn back to Finnick to ask if he remembers the rest of the poem, but he’s already left. The lamp on the table is off too, but there’s no need for its light now since soft morning  sunlight is shining in the train. The sky is brightening with every passing moment and the sun’s blood red intensity has drained from the sky. I extend my arm curiously and brush my fingertips against the lamp’s bulb. It’s cold. I cover my face in my hands and exhale in exasperation

Still, dawn is breaking and I need to get ready for my first appearance in the glorious Capitol. Hopefully Thora won’t make us thank it for what it’s provided us over breakfast today. The Capitol has taken away much more than it’s provided me with. But I have to win its favor in order to be provided with anything for the Games. Maybe if I had somehow convinced Finnick that I’m not a nutcase I can convince the rich people in the Capitol too.

I hit the showers, washing the last traces of District 4 and the ocean from my skin and hair. The shower is a brand new sensation to me, and it feels like warm rain passing over my skin. I don’t think that even the most affluent families in District 4 have showers. Aside from the clean water rations that the Capitol regulates, all of our water comes from the sea. 

Only the wealthiest sailors can afford the Capitol’s water and even then it’s only for special occasions. But when Finnick won the Games five years ago, everyone was given clean water. I can remember Allie saying that it tasted ten times better than the salt water we purified ourselves. 

I open my mouth to the spray of the showerhead. It tastes like Allie’s favorite water.

When I step out of the shower, I’m alarmed to see one of the Capitol servants standing in the bathroom. She gestures towards a large silver sphere that balances on the sink counter. 

“Ok, thanks,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve never been very comfortable with standing around stark naked in front of other people. That’s why I do it as little as possible. Like, never.

The bathroom attendant leaves, and I investigate the silver orb. A mechanical hum sings from its core but it’s hard to detect over the knocking of the train. Just as I had experimentally felt the lamp’s light bulb I touch the sphere. An electric current instantly races through my body and I’m completely dry. I can just barely feel the silky touch of my hair against my collarbone.

Back in my cabin, the woman who had showed me the dryer has laid out a light blue shirt and navy pants for me to wear. I dress quickly before exiting into the main compartment.

“Oh thank goodness!” Thora exclaims as I sit down at the dining table. I’m not sure if she’s more relieved that I’m ready or for the fact that I’m more presentable than I was yesterday.

But she looks different too. A relatively more simple look replaced her Reaping Day splendor. She wears her baby blue hair in a bun that is rolled at the nape of her neck. The shark from yesterday is neatly secured in the center of the blue barrel. I probably look distressed because her expression abruptly changes from pleased to anxious.

“Morning, Annie,” Finnick says with a wink.

“Oh Finnick, how much sugar have you had this morning?” My escort giggles. She’s trying to pretend to be reproachful, but I can tell she’s batting her bejeweled eyelashes at him. Finnick has quite the reputation with Capitol women.

Ignoring Miss. Sugarcane, Mags places small rolls on our breakfast plates.

“From home,” She expresses simply.

“Thank you, Mags,” Pacific responds. He splits his green loaf in half and inhales deeply.

“My granddaughter made them… I wasn’t sure if you wanted one Thora. No sugar in these,” the old woman continues, finally addressing Thora’s offended expression.

I tune out her reply as I pick up the bread and silently thank Mags’ granddaughter. Somehow she’s all that Mags has left. I don’t know what happened to her other grandchildren or the rest of her family, but now’s not the time to ask.

After breakfast, Thora escorts us off the train. I can’t get a very good look at the Capitol or its inhabitants because my senses are overloaded with bright colors and the dazzling sun. At home, the sun is bright and it glints off the ocean waves, but here, it’s impossibly intense as it reflects off of every glittering skyscraper.

I attempt to smile as Thora, Finnick, and Pacific wave to the excitable crowd on our short walk to the Training Center. Mags holds the hand I’m not using to shield my eyes and keeps my pace steady. Judging by my racing heart and sweaty palms, I would probably already be inside the stupid building is she wasn’t acting as my anchor. This is probably better though, letting the Capitol people see that I’m not actually a loon. I lower my visor and wave at the spectators.


	3. Chapter 3

#  3

“She’s too thin,” a woman with a nasally voice complains.

She circles my naked form one more time for good measure, and then gets a notebook and pen from one of her comrades.

“If you haven’t heard, Galla, thin is in,” a man with black hair drawls. He snatched the notebook away from her.

I stand in the center of the room like a statue. I haven’t said a word since they whisked me away to the Remake Center, even though my experience has been nothing short of unpleasant. 

Despite my shower on the train, they insisted I be washed again. Then they covered me in a thick butter that was only to be rinsed off during my fourth stay in the tub. All the hair that wasn’t on my head has been waxed and tweezed, and I’ve been poked and prodded so many times that my skin has began to ache. Now I’m forced to stand naked in front of three strangers as they evaluate my ‘strengths’ and ‘weaknesses.’

My prep team is made up of two identical women and the tallest, skinniest man I’ve ever met.

Apparently the women aren’t related, but they’ve gone through cosmetic alterations to look alike. I guess family resemblances are among the many things that the Capitol fabricates. The first woman is named Galla. She’s young and fairly slim, although not the Capitol definition of thin as the man, Klaus, had insinuated. Her hair is a demure violet color and she has dark stars at the center of her blue irises instead of round pupils. The other woman is just the same, except her name is Sonoma.

In comparison to his female cohorts, Klaus has a more tame appearance. He’s extremely thin, but underweight bodies are not all that unusual in Panem, although they’re usually found in places like District 12 and not the Capitol. The idea of starving yourself while having access to a plethora of foods makes me feel uneasy and I wonder if he’s sick. He is dressed in black from head to toe, which isn’t all that remarkable, except for the fact his platform boots and thick rimmed glasses are bedazzled with amber and crystal studs.

He takes a moment to write down ‘thin’ in the strengths column in the notebook. Pale, doe eyes, and legs join the more favorable side of the chart. Bony hips, freckles, and hair make an appearance on the weaknesses side. They all seem to agree that my hair is terrible and in dire need of attention.  

“Darling what did you do to your hair?” Klaus asks. “It’s absolutely wretched!”

I honestly don’t think my hair deserves the descriptor of wretched but it is the shortest I’ve had it in a very long time, and slightly uneven. My hair falls about an inch beyond my collarbone and the cut is choppy at best. Months prior to my arrival in the Capitol I had gone for a swim near the docks and had the misfortune to swim into a net. The fishermen had hauled me up on deck and exclaimed, “We’ve caught a mermaid!” 

Luckily they had sense enough to leave the actual hair cutting to my mother and simply severed the rope that was badly tangled in my tresses.  

“Don’t worry, Annia. Vivien can fix it!” Sonoma cries as if fixing my hair is of utmost importance. 

“It’s just Annie,” I say in a small voice.

“She speaks! Add that to the list, Klaus,” she gasps.

“What? That she can talk?”

“No! That her voice is so… sweet!”

Sweetness makes me think of Thora Sugarcane. And Finnick. I wonder if he’s already found some ritzy Capitol woman who will temporarily enjoy his company. He probably has and this makes me feel a bit glum for whatever reason. Of course Finnick Odair and my troubled locks should be the least of my worries since I’ll be dead in a few days. 

So ‘voice’ is added to the list and then the paper is handed to a handsome woman as she enters the room. She studies the list carefully with her back turned to me. She’s the famed designer for District 4, the amazing Vivien.

“I suppose that sea siren design I was planning on is out of the question,” she sighs before turning around.

For next hour she scrutinizes my appearance, scribbles things in her notebook, and rips pages out. After much consideration, the amazing Vivien opens her mouth and announces, “You will be a pearl! What with that lovely pale skin of yours… Don’t you ever go outside girl? Don’t answer that because I don’t care, my brilliance has returned!”

During the opening ceremonies of recent years, all of the female tributes from District 4 have blurred together in one vague representation of a mermaid, so I’m as thrilled as Vivien is with her brand new idea. 

As far as going outside goes, I guess the cream my prep team smeared over my entire body is doing its job of concealing the remnants of sunburn and tan lines. I choose to ignore the last part of what she said since it isn’t the time to be making enemies with my brilliant stylist.

The next time I see her, I’m clothed in a blindingly white garment and my skin is coated in a thin layer of shimmering dust. The cut of the dress is fairly simple, with the hem just reaching my kneecaps and a scoop neckline, but the overall effect is quite stunning. The fabric possesses a mesmerizing iridescence, and I realize that it is not truly white but instead a handful of different colors all at once. Soft pinks transition into pale greens and ivories which all recede into the bodice that is absolutely covered in pearls. My hair is styled into an updo and has little silver fish clipped into its sleek waves. Perhaps Vivien really does deserve the descriptor of amazing because she manages to make dark, heavy makeup compliment the whole ensemble.

Maybe I will get some sponsors tonight as I look a far cry from what I had looked like at the Reaping. I begin to feel hopeful, but I falter at my stylist’s next comment. 

“This was a wedding dress before I made the alterations,” she says.

When I’m finally let out of the dressing room, I’m reunited with Pacific Lum. I’m guessing Vivien didn’t notify his stylist about my costume change because we hardly match at all. He’s shirtless, revealing a well-built torso and his tan skin fades artfully into a pair navy pants. Each pant leg ends in its own blue caudal fin.

“I look absolutely ridiculous,” Pacific declares, but despite his negative assertion he’s grinning like a fiend. This is what he has been working towards his whole life and he’s finally here. He must be downright giddy to be in the Capitol. And it must be the first time I’ve ever seen him smile because I notice he has a gap between his two front teeth.

“You don’t look that bad,” I assure him. “It looks like your designer just wanted to play up your strengths.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, taking a step towards me. I instinctually take a step backwards and he tries his best to stifle a laugh.

“Didn’t your prep team make a strengths and weaknesses list?” I respond nervously.

“Don’t worry Annie, I get it,” he says, still laughing to himself.

He slings an eye patch over his left eye and I’m left to ponder over his last statement. Then we are lead down to the ground floor of the Remake Center where our chariot awaits.

The District 4 chariot is pulled by two hearty strawberry roan horses and I give them each an affectionate pat on the nose before mounting the chariot. Some of the elders in the village say that we used to have wild horses that would run across the beaches. But that was before The Dark Days Rebellion. I wonder if Mags remembers a time when horses ran along the shore.

“You know they say that Poseidon made horses out of ocean wave crests,” I tell Pacific.

“Did he make Crestas out of ocean wave crests too?” My district partner inquires. He’s making polite conversation but I can tell he’s scoping out the Careers in the chariots ahead of us.

“I don’t know.” I’m a bit stumped by his question but add, “Are you suggesting I have a horse face?”

“Yes,” and that gap between his teeth makes a reappearance.

Luckily I’m given no time to think of a lame comeback because our horses are tugging us forward. One by one, the chariots leave the stable, each giving the one preceding it a little head start. Every district gets its moment in the limelight. Or the starlight.

The stars, bright and burning overhead are the first things I notice as we pull out of the stable followed by the cheers and shouts for District 4.


	4. Chapter 4

#  4

“District Four didn’t have any trouble getting sponsors last year, and those tributes were dressed as a run of the mill mermaid and pirate during the opening ceremonies! And their training scores were pretty low too. So you two should have no trouble at all getting sponsors!” Thora Sugarcane explains, as chipper as ever.

We’ve made it to the fourth floor of the Training Center and although the fashion show has barely ended it’s time to start strategizing for the Games. 

“You two looked pretty out there,” Finnick says dreamily, giving Thora one of his signature smiles.

She nearly swoons but contains herself when she sees Mags squinting at her. She must be a little afraid of the old woman, I know I am. Although Mags is old and gentle, there is an underlying darkness in her tourmaline green eyes. She was once a Victor herself. Still is, technically.

Night is falling and although the red sun is sinking over the Capitol, the streets below still buzz with excitement, and we’re only just sitting down to dinner. A few Capitol servants in white uniforms set the table with china, cutlery, and a main course. It’s some kind of savory dish with rice, shriveled plums, and a type of meat I don’t recognize. The thick, creamy white sauce that blankets the entire entrée isn’t all that appetizing to me, but I stomach the heavy meal anyways. I could probably afford to put on a few pounds before entering the arena.

“I’m guessing this isn’t fish,” Pacific says, scrutinizing a piece of meat he’s speared with his fork.

“No, it’s lamb!” Thora exclaims which prompts Finnick to baa. 

We all laugh, except for the servants who just bring a few more dishes of piping hot food to the table, this time it’s a fish fillet garnished with oranges and turnips. Pacific seems sheepish about the change, but still swaps his lamb for a fish dish.

After everyone’s eaten we begin to plan for the coming days.

“District Four is a Career district, and I honestly think both of you have a shot of getting into the Career Pack this year,” Finnick says.

Mags’ bobs her head up and down and adds, “Sorry bunch this year.”

“Right, the Careers from One and Two aren’t all that impressive this year, but they’ve still got a better shot at surviving the first week than the kids from the lower districts. Tomorrow’s the first day of training, and I advise you two to get to know them. Dazzle and Cameo are the boy and girl from District One, while Hadrian and Laurentia are from District Two,” he explains.

I have my doubts about my merit as a Career. I’m almost certain that they’ll take Pacific in without a second thought, but me… I was pretty sure that Finnick and Mags were going to tell me that I’d be paddling my canoe alone.

“I’m not so sure I’ll be allowed in the Career pack, Finnick. I’m not a Career,” I say, lowering my voice slightly. I’m worried about alluding to my weakness in front of Pacific, but I probably haven’t said anything he hasn’t already figured out for himself.

“I wouldn’t be too quick to count yourself out,” he says, and this takes me by surprise. “Plus, the best you can do is try to get in. Being rejected and not trying to get in at all will yield the same outcome anyways.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“So after we wheel out the welcome wagon, what should we do?” Pacific asks, trying to push the conversation along.

“You should check out what each of the stations has to offer. Try some things you’re good at and pick up a few skills along the way. Tomorrow won’t be too crucial to our strategy since it’s only the first day. Everybody will be getting used to the setup of the room.”

I reenter the conversation with a, “What exactly is our strategy anyways?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll work on it every day after training,” our mentor assures me.

“But now it’s time for bed,” Mags says solidly. She raises herself from the table and gestures for us to do the same.

“Right, thanks Mags. Time for bed kiddos,” Finnick affirms, getting up. But It looks more like he’s getting ready to leave than go to bed. He looks at his watch and seems impatient.

I don’t dwell on my mentor’s odd behavior for too long though because I’m happy to go to bed. I haven’t slept since that afternoon on the train and I’m fairly exhausted.

“Goodnight,” I say to no one in particular.

“Goodnight, Annie,” Finnick says, and I realize we’re the only ones still standing in the dining room. He must be waiting for me to leave. 

As I head down the hallway that leads the way to my bedroom I hear the front door click shut. But I don’t think about Finnick or the gap in Pacific’s teeth or the Games or blood and so I sleep well.

In the morning, only Mags joins us for breakfast. Finnick still hasn’t returned from wherever he went last night. Pacific, Mags, and I make inconsequential small talk over apple bread and juice for the majority of the meal, but suddenly Mags’ voice becomes dead serious. Despite the side effects of her stoke she speaks deliberately and enunciates every syllable for guaranteed understanding.

“Remember to warm up to the other Careers today but also consider that you will need to break away.”

Pacific and I look at her in confusion but remain silent, so she speaks to this point further.

“Leaving the Pack will be important. Leave too soon and the whole arena will hunt you down. Leave too late and you’ll be an easy target for the remaining Careers. You need to leave while there are still other tributes in the field, but not too many…”

Her advice seems valid enough, so what confuses me most is her timing. We’re - well I’m - not even sure if I have a spot with the Careers and breaking my nonexistent alliance is currently low on my list of priorities.

“And if we time it wrong?” Pacific asks.

“If it is already too late… Kill them in their sleep,” our elderly mentor responds.

Kill them. This is an aspect of the Games that I have conveniently ignored up until this point. But now I have no choice but to address it. My pink hands will be painted red if I I make it out of the arena.

I look down at my pale palms and can already see the harsh color surging just beneath my skin. My greenish veins flash red, the color creeps from my fingertips up to my forearms. Luckily my company hasn’t noticed the transformation. I hide my arms beneath the skirt of the white table cloth and act like it’s not happening.

“You alright, dear? You look pale,” Mags says. But as the darksome quality in her eyes begins to dissipate, so do the creeping red vines on my white flesh.

Relieved I reply, “Yes I’m fine. Just anxious to get down to training is all.”

“Then you best hurry down.”

We’re relatively early for training, but the room is already peppered with tributes. I look around. There are at least a dozen stations set up around the gym, half of them are dedicated to survival, and the other half is for weaponry and skills. Tributes stand away from each other, waiting for the session to begin - or be over with. The only tributes that stand in a group are the Careers.

Pacific nods at them and a boy with a square jaw and dark curls nods back smugly. We approach the group and this is the first time I’m able to get a really good look at my potential allies. The boy who nodded is from District 2, and although he’s a head shorter than Pacific, he’s more muscular. His district partner, Laurentia is also fairly short but solidly built. She has a matronly appearance and could probably crush my head between her thighs.

Pacific and Hadrian shake hands, but it seems more like they’re trying to covertly break each other’s fingers. I’m soon ambushed with a bone cracking hug courtesy of the girl from District 1.

She is fair with rosy cheeks and long chestnut hair, and I can’t help but think that his is what my team wishes I looked like. She introduces herself as Cameo Saks, and proudly points to the token that she already wears around her neck. Unlike the boy from her district, she is every bit her namesake. Dazzle doesn’t have the glittering personality his name would suggest. Instead he’s weasel-like and aloof.

“Annie Cresta! What a treasure you are, an absolute treasure!” Cameo exclaims. “Isn’t she a treasure Dazzle?”

Dazzle doesn’t say anything but gives me a sidelong glance.

“Yes you are precious! But don’t get the wrong idea, Annie Cresta, I will cut you,” she adds, her voice entirely too melodious to carry the weight of her statement.

“Thank you,” I say pleasantly, and my second thought comes at a whisper, “and I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

Atala, the head trainer, soon enters and the first session begins. She tells us about the various stations in length. Just as she is instructing us not to hurt each other, a brutish looking girl bursts through the doors.

“You’re late, Ten,” Atala says flatly, stopping her spiel midway to address the tardy tribute.

“I’m late, but you’re going to have to deal with it,” the girl from 10 says.

She walks past our group without as much as a glance. Cameo mimes shooting the zero on her back with an imaginary bow and arrow. This elicits the first emotion I’ve seen from Dazzle all morning, he’s practically having a fit. Ten ignores his snickers and takes her place in the circle. It looks like Lily Byron, the milk maid from 10, is the tribute to beat.

Atala resumes her speech and informs us that each station is attended to by a trainer and that we will break for lunch in two hours’ time. 

I eye the various stations and begin to gravitate towards Pacific but a searing pain grabs my shoulder before I can move. I’m yanked backwards. Once again, my assailant is Cameo Saks. She has her right hand clamped around my wrist and pulls Laurentia with her left. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

The belle from District 1 trots off in the direction of the weapon stations with Laurentia and me in tow. She stops abruptly in front of a knife display.

“I was hoping we could train together. You know, like friends,” she explains sweetly, releasing us from her vice-like grip.  

“We’re not friends, paper shaker,” Laurentia deadpans, but she picks up a knife anyways. Her motions are concentrated but lighting quick. She draws her muscular arm back and hurls the blade forward in one swift motion. The combat knife soon finds itself in the stomach of a nearby dummy. The station attendee, a man with a shaved head and stretched ear lobes, looks pleased and Laurentia flashes a cocky smile. Her first smile of the day.  

Cameo and I follow suit. Cameo’s knife buries itself in the dummy’s shoulder while my own projectile doesn’t even reach the target. As a unit we move from weapon station to weapon station and my results remain largely the same. My failure seems to make Laurentia grin even more than her own success.

I can only imagine the hue that undoubtedly colors my cheeks, but it must be flaming red because my whole body feels like it’s on fire. I keep my head down at hand-to-hand and at the staff station, but I can feel the other tributes staring. Their eyes burn a hole in the back of my vulnerable head. I’m an easy target.

It turns out that Cameo is not only a good shot with the imaginary bow and arrow, but the real thing as well. She hits the bull’s-eye every time with little effort. However, once her quiver’s emptied she turns around with a distinct expression of embarrassment.

“Nice shooting,” Laurentia offers, vaguely impressed.

The trainer attempts to hand me a bow, indicating that it’s my turn to shoot, but I decline. I’ve never touched an arrow in my life, and I think that Laurentia’s had all the glee she can handle for one day. I I gesture for us to move to a new station

Finnick said that today wasn’t going to impact our strategy, but I bet he didn’t expect me to perform so poorly. And if he did, well, he must be counting on divine intervention. Or maybe he was just humoring me.

My mentor instructed Pacific and me to not only try new things, but also things we’re good at - and I feel like I’ve tried enough new skills to last me a week. That’s why I grab my allies’ hands and race towards knot tying.

“We ought to concentrate on the survival stations,” I say as we sprint across the gym, “Careers are natural whizzes at weapons, but it’s once the supplies run out that they’re toast.”

My companions nod their assent but I can tell Laurentia is sour to leave the torture chamber.

The trainer at knot tying greets us enthusiastically and teaches us how to tie some basic loops. The rope is smoother and thinner than the rope my parents use, but it still feels familiar against my fingertips. 

After we’ve mastered the five basic ties, the trainer sets us loose to attempt whatever knots we please. I’m bending over a diagram of a Yosemite Bowline knot, when Laurentia throws her rope to the ground with a huff and leaves without a word. I see her meet up with Hadrian and Pacific at the mace station. She shoots me a dirty glare from across the gym. I would never say so out loud, but she was pretty awful at knot tying.

Cameo is likewise a layman with rope but she stays put, even though she’s no longer tying. She instead braids her hair, which I guess is almost like knot tying. She also stares at me intently as if she had said something and expects a response.

“That’s your token right? It’s really pretty,” I attempt, gesturing towards her necklace.

It is pretty too. It’s ovular and features the profile of a graceful looking woman. Her form is ivory and the background is pale rose in color. The oval is rimmed with stiff, gold lace that matches the ribbon it’s inlaid in. Cameo brushes the face with a dainty finger and I notice that her manicured nails are pale rose too.

“Dazzle gave it to me,” she says. “He’s really clever.”

“Oh, neat. So you and Dazzle were friends before the Reaping?”

“Yes, something like that,” she answers. “Do you have a token Annie Cresta?”

“No, I forgot mine,” I say. 

Cameo turns away from me to talk to the station attendee, so I guess the conversation is over. The trainer soon hands her a plastic bag filled with spools of floss and she becomes absorbed in tangling various shades of green thread together until it’s time for lunch.

As we abandon the knot station, Cameo once again seizes my arm, but this time she ties her green creation around my wrist. I look down at the friendship bracelet and smile, the intertwined strands spell out ‘Annie.’ I can’t help but think that this girl doesn’t get it, but then I’m reminded of her dexterity with a bow. I think I’m the only one who doesn’t get it.


End file.
